It seemed like a good day to die.
It was the spring of 2012, and Michael Sona could see no other way out. Alone in his Ottawa apartment, he loaded up the magazine of his .45 calibre pistol with ten rounds — noting to himself the absurdity of the act.
“I just needed one. But you do weird stuff almost reflexively when you’re in that state of mind.”
It was the spring of 2012, and Michael Sona could see no other way out. Alone in his Ottawa apartment, he loaded up the magazine of his .45 calibre pistol with ten rounds — noting to himself the absurdity of the act.
“I just needed one. But you do weird stuff almost reflexively when you’re in that state of mind.”







